Baker Street Shooting
by Kadreia
Summary: There is a shooting at Baker Street, and suddenly Sherlock thinks he's all alone, again. Sequel is Nightmare's Products.
1. Chapter 1

_John? JOHN! John, say something! John, don't you dare die! John, please! John…. John I…._

One Week Before

"Sherlock! Stop shooting the damn wall!"

"But I'm bored, John."

"I don't give a damn that you're bored. You're going to tear that wall to shreds if you keep shooting it. "

"Oh fine," Sherlock put his gun down and sat down on the couch, sulking like a little kid that has just been denied his favorite candy.

"Thank you," John uttered. A muffled 'hmmp' was all Sherlock returned. John sighed. He hated to see Sherlock bored, mostly because it would be close enough to being considered public safety hazard if Sherlock didn't stay in the apartment. Just then Sherlock's phone beeped. He hurriedly scattered across the room for it. It was Lestrade. The message read:

_Sniper shooting people all over town. Only takes about one victim a week. Been going on for about a month. Seems all targets males in their thirties to forties. No evidence. No press on this one. Need your help. Met me at the station. –GL_

Sherlock grinned.

"Alright Watson, let's go. It's about time we get a good case."

They hailed a cab and told the driver their destination.

"Sherlock, you never told me what the case was," John remarked.

"Oh. Yes, it seems there is a sniper that kills one person every week. The targets seem to be middle-aged men; about four victims have been killed, and there seems to be no evidence pointing to the killer."

"Oh. Why hasn't it been on the news?"

"Lestrade said that there is to be no press. So your blog will have to wait until I solve this one."

* * *

><p>They pulled up at the station and went inside. Sherlock walked straight into Lestrade's office without even knocking, the usual Sherlockian way.<p>

"Sherlock, John, nice to see you. Okay down to business. As you know there is a sniper shooting down middle-aged men. One every week…" Sherlock wasn't paying attention, and if he was he was doing it in an odd way. The detective was intently looking at the file Lestrade had handed him.

"When was the last shooting?" Sherlock interrupted. Lestrade's phone vibrated inside his pocket. He took it out and glanced at the screen. He replied hastily saying, "About two minutes ago." Sherlock glanced up.

"Then why are we just sitting here? Let's go." Sherlock walked out the door and John started to follow when Lestrade grabbed his hand and pulled him back.

"John, I didn't want to tell this to Sherlock, I think he would be to worried about you if I did, but anyway all the victims have the same hair color and are all around the same height."

"Why would that worry Sherlock?"

"Because John, their hair color, age, and height are about the same as yours."

"Oh," was all John could manage to reply.

* * *

><p>When they arrived at the crime scene Sherlock got out of the car and walked up to the yellow police tape in fast, swift movements. He stopped at the police tape, however, to wait for John. They both went under the tape and walked to the body. There, just as Lestrade had said, was a middle-aged man, that from behind could have been considered John's brother. Sherlock stooped down to examine the body. A perfect shot straight into the man's forehead. John didn't think he had ever seen such a clean and precise head shot. It was clearly done by a professional. John's thoughts were interrupted by Sherlock's voice.<p>

"What? I didn't here you," said John, snapping out of his thoughts. Sherlock's voice was shaky; he looked up at John and handed him a note.

"Where did you get this?" John asked.

"It was inside the victims pocket," Sherlock replied in a shaky tone. "It was placed there after he had been shot." John looked at the note it read:

_You're next John Watson. Consider this your 'one week to live' notice._

_-Your Future Killer_

John read and reread the note over and over hoping that if he did the note's message would change into something more pleasant, but he knew it wouldn't. He looked at Sherlock. The detective was acting calm, but John could see that his hands were, barley shaking, but shaking, nonetheless. John was terrified, but he bent down and put his hand one the detectives shoulder.

"Find anything else?"

"Yes," replied Sherlock," the man's body hasn't been moved since he was killed, going by the pool of blood around the body. The sniper was very accurate, but shooting him in this alley was a mistake, the only place to get any shot at all would be that building," he said, pointing to the building across the street. "The third floor stairway would give you an almost perfect shot for this killing."

"So most of, or all of the evidence would be in that building, third floor stairway. Correct?"

"Yes, you tell Lestrade. I'm going to go ahead over.

* * *

><p>Sherlock walked to window of the third floor stairway and looked at the crime scene he had just left.<p>

"Hello, Sherlock. I see you got my note." Jim Moriarty emerged from the shadows with a smirk on his face. Sherlock turned around not surprised at all.

"Well you know, you were going to 'burn my heart out', and the easiest way to do that would be by killing John."

"Ah, very good, Sherlock, but just remember I won't be killing you friend directly. So no hard feelings."

"Don't you dare hurt John, Moriarty," Sherlock snarled.

"Getting protective now, are we?" Moriarty said with a smirk. They stared at each other intently, until they both heard John walking up the stairs.

"I'll leave you two alone, now," Moriarty whispered before walking up the remainder of the stairs and disappearing around the corner. Sherlock didn't chase after him, knowing that it wouldn't help. Moriarty would just slink away, like he always did, leaving no trace. Instead Sherlock turned and faced John.

"Who were you talking to?" John asked when he reached the point where Sherlock was standing.

"Myself," Sherlock replied with a grin. He wasn't the best at displaying real emotion, but faking it was just as easy as breathing to him.

"Umm, okay, did you find anything?"

"It's our old friend Moriarty who hired the sniper. I at least know that much."

"How did you figure that out?" John asked, clearly interested. Sherlock just looked at John and sighed.

"Let's go home. There is no more evidence here that can help me."

"Okay then." John said hesitantly, "I'll go inform Lestrade." Sherlock watched John walk down the stairs and out the door. When he heard the faint click of the door closing, he sighed and ran his fingers through his thick, black curls. "Oh John," he thought, "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." Sherlock felt a painful knot form in the pit of his stomach. "Guilt," He thought, "For the first time in a long while, I actually feel guilt."


	2. Chapter 2

The next week passed fast, too fast for John's liking, but no matter how slow the week went, it would never be slow enough. John had decided not to tell his sister, or anyone for that matter. He thought his last week should be like any other one.

"At least I get to spend my last week with Sherlock," He thought to himself one evening. Sherlock was acting just the same as he always did. John did, however, notice that Sherlock was around him more often and didn't seem to leave his side. John didn't mind; he actually enjoyed it. Facing the fact, that it was Moriarty that was after him, and that there was a very slim chance John was going to live to see the next week, he didn't seem to hold back any of his feelings towards his flatmate anymore, of course, he didn't tell Sherlock, but he did accept the fact that he did love him. It wasn't a sexual love, he just loved Sherlock, and he left it at that.

* * *

><p>It was about eleven at night, and John walked out of the kitchen into the living room where Sherlock was sitting. The detective looked up from what he was doing, stared at John, and then looked back down. John thought he saw a hint of sadness in the man's eyes, and then he realized that he was supposed to be killed tomorrow, and Sherlock would be alone again. John sighed and sat down next to Sherlock, closer than usual, but he really didn't care. The detective moved closer to him until their knees and shoulders were firmly press against one another's. John's muscles relaxed at the feeling of heat that Sherlock's body emitted. Then Sherlock, out of nowhere, laid his head on John's shoulder. John's first reaction was to move away, but Sherlock stopped him by saying,<p>

"John, don't move. Please." They sat there for about ten minutes before Sherlock drifted off to sleep.

"You haven't been sleeping lately, you idiot," John whispered while twirling Sherlock's thick black curls in-between his fingers. Then he started to slowly drift off into a peaceful sleep. Something he had not gotten since he had read the note.

* * *

><p>John woke up to the sun hitting his face. He had slept through the night on the couch with Sherlock, who was up and sitting on the couch buried in case files. John smiled, if a human or drug didn't kill Sherlock, then all the case files, sure as hell, would.<p>

"Oh good, you're up," said Sherlock gleefully. John only replied with a sleepy groan. Sherlock laughed. John hadn't heard him laugh in a long time, and he quite liked the sound of it. John looked at the clock it was about five in the morning, the morning when he was to be killed. Sherlock interrupted his thoughts a few short moments later.

"John, go get dressed we are going out."

"Where are we going?"

"I don't know. Where do you want to go?" John was surprised his friends reply. Well not really the reply, just the 'I don't know' part. He wasn't accustomed to hearing those words come out of Sherlock's mouth. John replied to his friend,

"Do you want to just walk around town and visit some of the places from our best cases?"

"Relive some of the old memories, huh?" Sherlock said with a grin

"Yeah, seemed like a good_ last_ thing to do." John murmured. Sherlock frowned at this.

"John, don't say that."

"Yeah, I guess you're right. Okay! Where do you want to go first?"

* * *

><p>Sherlock and John spent the entire day revisiting places from: A Study in Pink, The Blind Banker, and about any place they could think of. The day was filled with laughs, smiles, and <em>a lot<em> of Sherlock's deductions.

They were just rounding the corner onto Baker Street, and John was typing about his day with Sherlock on his phone, to upload to his blog. Sherlock was a couple steps ahead of John just because the doctor slowed his pace to type. John pushed the enter button on his phone to upload his blog entry when he heard a 'pfft', and then he felt a sharp pain on the right side of his head. He grunted and fell to ground.

Sherlock heard John's grunt and turned around. He saw the doctor hit the ground and rushed over to him. The detective saw a small pool of blood around John's head.

"John? JOHN! John, say something! John, don't you dare die! John, please! John…. John, I… I can't live without you! Please don't die!" The detective felt a tear fall down his cheek. He put his head down on John's chest and started crying, crying harder than he had ever cried before.


	3. Chapter 3

_"John? JOHN! John, say something! John, don't you dare die! John, please! John…. John, I… I can't live without you! Please don't die!" The detective felt a tear fall down his cheek. He put his head down on John's chest and started crying, crying harder than he had ever cried before._

* * *

><p>It must have been ten minutes before the police arrived. Lestrade somehow managed to get the detective off of John, but not without strenuous effort.<p>

"Sherlock, stop struggling," said Lestrade, his voice edged with sadness and frustration. Sherlock sent Lestrade a look that would, no doubt, be in the man's nightmares.

"Sherlock, I think you better go home." Sherlock did not reply and Lestrade wasn't expecting him too. Surprisingly Sherlock did follow the man's advice and started walking towards 221B. He reached the flat and looked around. He would never again hear John's voice when he walked through that door. He would never hear the sound of John waking up in the morning and rumbling through the kitchen to find the tea, or hear his annoyingly slow typing on his computer. John was gone, and Sherlock could hardly bare it. He walked to John's room and laid on his bed, while the faint smell of John comforted him. His phone was buried deep in his coat pocket when it buzzed. He seriously considered not answering it, but if he didn't it would just keep buzzing. Sherlock forced himself to reach for the device and look at its screen. It was a message from Lestrade. It read:

_You owe him a hell of a lot now, Sherlock. Now get down here._

_-GL_

Sherlock stared at the message blankly. Then he groaned and swung his feet over the edge of the bed. He stood and walked out of the flat. When he reached the crime scene Lestrade walked up to him and gave him a smile.

"He's lost a lot of blood and is still a bit off from being unconscious."

"What?" Sherlock said, giving him an irate look. Lestrade only pointed to an ambulance. He looked at it and then looked at Lestrade. Lestrade laughed then nodded in reply to the unsaid question. Sherlock started to run towards the ambulance. He saw a John sized lump laying on it and stopped a few steps away.

"Sherlock?" said a very weak voice barely audible. Sherlock just stared, frozen in shock. The voice spoke again with more strength and volume.

"Sherlock, did you really think you get rid of me that easily. It's going to take more than that to take me away from you."

"Oh God, John."

"Yes?"

Sherlock ran the few steps left to the ambulance and hugged John. The doctor laughed.

"What that's all I get?" he said with a smile. Sherlock promptly bent down and pressed his lips against John's.

"That better?" said Sherlock with a smile.

"Much," laughed John.

* * *

><p>It was two hours after John had been shot. The wound was powerful enough to knock him out, but not enough to kill him. The blood was a result of the gunshot wound, however, and John did loose a lot of blood but not enough to kill him.<p>

"The human body can withstand a lot, and John's certainly has," the paramedics instructed, "He needs to stay in bed and take it easy for a couple weeks. He actually should go to the hospital, but he refused."

"Okay, I'll take care of him," Sherlock replied.

"Alright. We already put him in his bed. He is on medication so let him sleep."

Sherlock nodded and the paramedics nodded back then left. Sherlock turned to go back to the flat when something moved out of the corner of his eye. Moriarty stepped from the shadows.

"Awe, look how cute," he said sarcastically.

"Why did he miss?"

"Sherlock, how should I know? I didn't shoot the gun."

"Tell me why he missed." Sherlock hissed.

" Oh, fine. He missed Sherlock, because I told him to. I have grown quite fond of Mr. John Watson over the past week that I have been watching him."

"Stay away from him."

"Always hogging the good things for yourself, Sherlock. Just remember, I still intend to burn your heart out." Moriarty uttered smugly. Sherlock turned and slowly muttered to Moriarty in a harsh tone,

"I will die for John, and as long as I'm around you will not kill him."

"Challenge accepted, Sherlock."


End file.
